


always there

by JaybirdSpectacular



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Bittersweet, Canon-Typical Violence, Dreams, Felix joins Edelgard, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, Ghosts, M/M, Mild Blood, Near Death Experiences, Reincarnation, Sylvain doesn't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 15:22:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29702607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaybirdSpectacular/pseuds/JaybirdSpectacular
Summary: Time and time again, that touch has saved his life by seconds. Even he cannot deny the presence of whatever it is any longer, as much as he might wish.Felix doesn't believe in ghosts. He can't believe in ghosts. The dead are dead, and fixating on them, holding them with value and care as if they are still among the living is a foolish mistake, a distraction from what's real.Still.There is a thrill that jolts through him with the contact.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 6
Kudos: 23





	always there

Felix spins to glare at the car that passed far too closely behind him, close enough that wind off it tousles his hair into a flyaway mess. If he had been only a second slower or the car only a little faster, he would certainly be laid out on the sidewalk right now.   
  
It was luck, stupid luck, he wants to tell himself, knowing that's not true, knowing that he felt the familiar phantom touch of a hand on his shoulder, encouraging him the scant inch to safety. That touch has haunted him since childhood, since he, mere moments from tumbling from a high tree, was caught by the back of his shirt by an invisible force. Time and time again, that touch has saved his life by seconds. Even he cannot deny the presence of whatever it is any longer, as much as he might wish.   
  
Felix doesn't believe in ghosts. He _can't_ believe in ghosts. The dead are dead, and fixating on them, holding them with value and care as if they are still among the living is a foolish mistake, a distraction from what's real.   
  
Still.   
  
There is a thrill that jolts through him with the contact.

  
\---  
  


He knows it's coming long before he lies down for sleep that night. The dreams always come along as a bitter aftertaste of the haunting touches. Every time, without fail. They never take him by surprise, nor do they seem to stray too far from the winding story they follow, careening toward a single predestined finale. Felix dreads the end, stupidly enough, as he lies down for bed. And, on this night, something feels as though it is ending. That this _will_ end the moment his eyes fall shut.   
  
They're just dreams. He knows that they're just dreams. And yet. And yet, they feel like they are something much more.   
  
He's afraid, he realizes with a healthy dose of self-disgust, to fall asleep tonight. Something writhes under his skin, twists painfully at his nerves, keeping him awake. He doesn't want to see this dream. He _mustn't_ see this dream.   
  
The ephemeral touch brushes his temple, at his hair, covering his eyes. It's okay, it's fine, go to sleep. Less than a surrender, it is a relief as he is dragged down, down, down into the murky depths of the dark.

  
\---

  
In his dream, the army is advancing on ----- slowly, the final stop before the end of their conquest. It is here, in these fields, where Felix feels the convergence of years of regret, painting them all in a dismal veneer. The murky gloom coats his thoughts in shades of grey, thinly veiling the near future. The knowledge of what occurs here dances at the very edges of his memory, yet he knows he will not remember until it happens.   
  
Lightning flashes above the field where the rain falls in thick sheets, crashing waves, but Felix cannot feel it, cannot feel the chill in his bones, cannot feel it past his frozen soul.  
His eyes meet the gaze of -----, and he knows it's over.   
  
The clashing of sword and lance.   
  
The ripping of flesh from muscle and bone.   
  
The breaking of a promise.   
  
It's over, and Felix can only stare in horror at the crumpled body beneath his feet. He falls to his knees, hand already reaching for limp and lifeless fingers— Goddess, Saints above, the man isn't dead. The battle rages on around them, but all is still and silent in Felix's world.   
  
"You were right, Fe," the dead man croaks, "I'm a reckless idiot." Felix doesn't acknowledge that, pretends the moisture on his face is from the rain alone. He simply pushes red hair from muddy eyes, the light dimming like a candle flickering unknowingly to its end. Somehow, the man keeps talking. "I'm not— I refuse. I'm not breaking the promise."   
  
He does.   
  
If he is—was— reckless, then so is Felix, who will not see the end of this war. Of this battle. So uncharacteristically distracted, so filled with regret. For once, he cannot act, cannot move forward, can only see smudges of grey and blue and red and brown. An enemy soldier approaches him. He doesn't budge.   
  
He sees a ghost.   
  
He sees no more.

  
\----

  
It is the fifth of the Garland Moon, and Felix awakens with regret stacked on his chest like a pile of stones. He doesn't know why, can't fathom why a dream is holding him down, pinning him to his bed. Just a dream. It's just a dream. Minutes or hours or days pass, he doesn't know, it all feels the same. The lull is broken when Glenn calls, wondering why Felix never showed for their morning run. Felix snaps at him, some excuse that he can't remember even five minutes after the call ends.   
  
Glenn must text Annette because she is the next to call. Calling, on the phone, first thing in the morning, like she doesn't know he hates it. He doesn't snap at her, will never snap at her. Yes, he's okay. Nothing is wrong. He's not sick. He's fine. Love you, too.   
  
He feels the palpable shock through the phone, knows she's all riled up now that he's given her a taste of measurable affection. He hangs up immediately, ignoring her nonsense sputtering, but it's too late.   
  
His phone buzzes and buzzes and buzzes and he knows they'll descend on his home and privacy like vultures. Annette will message Ashe, who lives just down the hall, to check on him immediately. Mercedes will show up by the evening with spiced cookies. Dimitri will drag himself from the safety and darkness of his home to visit, probably dragging Dedue unwillingly along behind him. Ingrid will be the last to know, and he will never hear the end of it once she catches wind of it. She will come over and stay for hours.   
  
(He secretly appreciates it. Way, way deep down. But not today. Today is for mourning.)   
  
(Mourning what?)   
  
It may already be too late. He can practically hear the gears of fate turning and whirling to bring him annoyance and grief.   
  
(He can't be around anyone right now.)   
  
Figuring he has but a precious few minutes before Ashe is at his door, cradling his cat like a plush offering to Felix, a rushed decision is made.   
  
He cannot deal with them today. With any of them. His skin crawls and itches and his feet drag him to the door. Shoes are laced. Down the hall, down the stairs, out the door. Without a plan or an inkling of where to go, he is gone.   
  
He can't shake the feeling that he is being followed as he walks down the street. Turning with a scowl, he expects to see Ashe, but there is no one. Nothing is there, _nothing is there_ , he repeats again and again to himself, mumbling under his breath as he continues on his way—   
  
He is shoved from behind.   
  
Several potted plants fall and shatter where he had just been standing, the dirt scattered across the pavement like his own head may have been had he not been— had he not moved. A hand lands softly on his shoulder, and he turns to assure whoever it is that he's fine.   
  
No one is there. But he _feels_ the hand, he _sees_ the imprint of it in the folds of his shirt, fingers digging into the fabric, holding him in place. Cautiously, carefully, _foolishly_ , he lays his hand atop the invisible entity.   
  
Only his own shoulder is solid beneath his caress, but the space feels undeniably warm.  
Bloody images from his dream arise unbidden. The face on the crumpled body smiles.   
  
He runs, and he runs, and he runs, and the glassy eyes trail him endlessly.

  
\---

  
Felix stops when he reaches the park, and images flash over his eyes, over his mind, and barely able to see for the imposing flashes of another life, he finds himself drawn to a gazebo.   
  
The day is warm and sunny. ( _It was a cool, dark night then._ )   
  
He is alone, there is nothing here. ( _Felix was with_ him, _had invited him out to see the stars on the last night before the end_.)   
  
He has made no promises, he has no obligations. Felix doesn't make promises. ( _Not since then, not since_ him.)   
  
Felix can't catch his breath. ( _Felix couldn't catch his breath, the lips against his wouldn't allow a moment's reprieve_.)   
  
Felix sits, cradles his head in his hands, willing the flashes of a life all his and not his at all to stop. ( _Felix sat, and let his face be touched and held with light, nearly phantom touches, tried to pretend it was all okay, pretend that he hadn't made the decision he had, tried to ignore the knowledge of how this man's heart would break come morning._ )   
  
It slows, and slows, and slows, and Felix finally takes a deep breath. The images are scattered to the wind on the exhale.

  
\---

  
He finds himself in a bakery of all places, full of sweets he detests. The smell of sugar is cloying. There is nothing he wants, nothing he would ever willingly taste in this store. Yet, he came here for something. His eyes won't settle, won't focus until he sees pre-made birthday cakes, coated in too much heavy icing and gaudy messages. Just looking at them makes him nauseous. Still, he moves towards the case.  
  
Not in control of his own body, he selects one, white, dotted with roses made of red icing, takes it to the counter. It's the last thing Felix wants, but here he is, getting out his wallet, taking out his credit card. The clerk asks him if he'd like to add a name to the cake.   
  
His mind forms a solid 'no'.   
  
His mouth says, "Sylvain."

  
\---

  
He takes the cake home, grateful that no one waits for him outside the door. After dropping it unceremoniously on the table, he watches it, stares at it with grating paranoia like it may spring up and attack him. Nothing makes sense— he is spiraling, losing control over a _cake_.   
  
Fork in hand, he takes the smallest bite he can, more icing than sponge, dissolving it on his tongue, all sugar. He immediately spits it out into the garbage and rinses his mouth with tap water.   
  
He thinks he hears a laugh.

  
\---

  
_The battlefield burned at the corners of his eyes, blurring like the words on a letter that’s begging for reason, an explanation, smoldering in the hearth unanswered._  
  
 _Lightning crashed. Rain fell._   
  
_Sylvain had remained with the Church._   
  
_Felix left._   
  
_There is no one person to blame for the turn of events. They all made their plans and mistakes and choices. Most followed their own hearts in some way._  
  
 _Felix found his heart here._   
  
_Felix brushed away the locks of red hair from Sylvain's eyes._   
  
_Those honey-brown eyes, warm and syrupy with affection and scorched black with rage and flame, were the last thing Felix ever saw._   
  
_In this life._

  
\---

  
He doesn't expect a new dream, considering he died in the last. Considering the overwhelming feeling of a finale. But this time, it's different.   
  
Sylvain sits in the gazebo at Garreg Mach. It is that starry night once again, but now they are no longer students. Sylvain wears the dark armor Felix last saw him in, and Felix dons the uniform he always wears in these dreams. They are both weaponless, spotless from blood and dirt and battle.   
  
Sylvain pats the place next to him, and Felix takes it without a thought.   
  
"Finally remember my name?" Sylvain asks. "Took you long enough."   
  
Felix can't look at him, so he watches the sky instead. Words scrape across the roof of his mouth. "Aren't you angry? I killed you."   
  
"Yeah, that was an asshole move on your part," Sylvain grumbles without any real bite to his voice, "But war is war. We did what we had to."   
  
"Did we have to?"   
  
Sylvain shrugs.   
  
"Why are you still here?" Felix asks, "Why haven't you moved on?"   
  
The look Sylvain gives him carries the weight of the world, and Felix knows he's about to be crushed before Sylvain's answer even falls.   
  
"I think the better question is, after all this time and all these lives, why haven't you?"

  
\---

  
In the morning, Felix will call Glenn, tell him everything. Glenn will believe him, admit that he's had flashes of similar dreams. They'll barely talk about it, as Fraldarius men are wont to do, but still, something will feel different between them.   
  
In the morning, he will take another bite of cake. It will be just as awful, and the whole thing will be dumped in the trash. He won't read the name again.   
  
In the morning, he will trip and nearly send himself tumbling down the stairs. He will catch himself. No invisible hand will touch him.   
  
He will never have another dream again.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm experiencing some writing burnout, so I've been drabbling Sylvix to try and push past it because it is a pairing I am VERY unfamiliar with writing. It's actually helping quite a bit! Plus I want to write MORE of them so the practice is good. I know there is irony in writing Felix to push past burnout. 
> 
> This was 100% haphazardly scribbled into a notebook and then typed into my phone because ??? 
> 
> Anyway kudos/comments appreciated! Let me know what you thought!


End file.
